


Fall

by KingOfRats



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cousin Incest, F/M, honestly its just fluff though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 17:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16937856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOfRats/pseuds/KingOfRats
Summary: A day before winter.





	Fall

**Author's Note:**

> this exists bc i dont want to study more for finals :x  
> i apologize for any lack of quality therefore

The Wolfswood is a sea of yellows and reds and oranges, the leaves rustling in the stiff, cold wind that blows in the North even now, in those last few months before winter. It is a song and dance that the Northerners and Free Folk are well accustomed to. 

Already, firewood and food has been stored for the long winter ahead, and most wear another layer of heavy furs and cloth.

And while Wintertown lays quiet, Sansa knows it will not remain so for long. She is Lady of Winterfell now, and as such it is her duty to ensure that the food stores are fat and well-prepared for the eventual influx of smallfolk. This has meant spending long days and longer nights at her desk, squinting over figures until her eyes hurt and her candles have burnt low.

So if she spends a little while longer than usual watching Jon spar, well, who could blame her?

Sansa has worked hard and she deserves a break. And Jon wouldn't be able to practice in just those tight breeches and that thin linen tunic for much longer, no matter how appealing it looked once it'd been drenched through in his sweat.

They use live steel, today. It is Jorren's first time with it, or at least his first time with live steel against someone he isn't trying to kill. The Free Folk did not often practice, as there had not been much time and energy to spare past the Wall, which made it all the more dangerous. Even the dulled tourney swords that they often used to practice had enough weight to cut deeply in the case of a particularly lucky - or unlucky - strike. She knew that was why Jon had made sure to partner with the boy today, even though it unnerves him.

Jorren looks at Jon like he is a legend come to life. Which might not be untrue, if what the Red Priestess was to be believed, but Sansa knows that he does not like it. The Free Folk speak of the King Crow like he is one part man and one part hero and one part divinity, like the Last Hero. And for all that their near reverence upsets him, Sansa is at least a little glad for it, because Jon has done much and suffered long for them, and it is good that he gets some recognition for his efforts.

Although the boy's hero worship does Jon little good when Jorren's wild swing comes down and there is no room to dodge.

Jon brings up his forearm but there is no shield or bracer to take the blow for him. Jorren stares at the wide gash he cut into Jon's arm with no small amount of terror and works himself into a panic even as Jon does nothing but laugh and compliment him.

Once, Sansa would have worked herself into a panic just as quickly, if for a different reason. She still had the nightmares of it, sometimes. That she'd ride to Castle Black only to find him with his chest torn open by his Black Brothers and with no Red Priestess to bring him back to her. Or that Littlefinger had had his way and she'd been declared Queen over his dead body. They do not stay for long - not when Jon scoops her into his arms and whispers sweet nothings into her ears or when Ghost's wet nose and rough tongue assault her face, but she has them all the same.

So Sansa steels herself. She tells herself that an injury during practice is uncommon. Jon knows how to handle it. She watches only long enough to see him calm Jorren and take the both of them to the Maester before she heads back to her solar.

And if the squirming unease that has sunk into her gut and refused to leave has left her without appetite and distracted and if she spends more time correcting her mistakes and worrying at her lips, there is little she can do about it. Sansa tells herself that she is not some silly little girl, that she cannot rush to his side and tend to him. She has duties to see to.

She works and tries not to think about it until the door opens and she looks up to find Jon entering her solar.

"The servants told me you hadn't gotten anything to eat," he tells her, gingerly carrying a large platter with both hands, bowls of soup and fresh bread for the both of them. There is worry on his face, as if she was the one who had been hurt. "I thought we might eat together, I hope you don't mind."

The soup is hot and heavy with onion and potato and meat, and just the smell of it makes her light headed with hunger. 

She takes its from him eagerly, and gives him a smile, "Of course it is."

They speak as they eat, just about small things like their weeks and their work, but it unwinds the ball of tension that has been curled up in her stomach all day. They were finished eating by the time Sansa asked about his arm.

"It's fine," Jon tells her, looking a little guilty. He rolls up his sleeve and offers the arm towards her for inspection. "I didn't know if someone had told you already, and I didn't want to worry you about it. I know you've been busy lately."

Sansa traces the rough edge of the bandage wrapped around his forearm. "I was watching while it happened. It looked like it hurt."

Jon grimaces. "I'm sorry you had to see it."

She presses a kiss onto the bandage. "There, does that feel any better?" She asks him playfully, "Or do I need to kiss you some more?"

His eyes are dark when he pulls her into his arms, and his beard rough when he kisses her. The two of them don't get much sleep.


End file.
